antrofagus

Latest Posts by antrofagus

most people glue it but you can just slide a piece of paper under it and like assemble the frame around it

i forgot how incredibly absorbing jigsaw puzzles are. i was just going to work on my new puzzle for a little while and then i looked at the clock and realized 5 hours had passed. for some reason it's the only thing i can be completely focused on for an unlimited length of time without a second source of entertainment, not even background music. i basically forgot my phone existed. it's honestly kind of unsettling.

puzzles are great because its hours of entertainment and then you just have a nice picture and you can frame it and put it up on your wall

i forgot how incredibly absorbing jigsaw puzzles are. i was just going to work on my new puzzle for a little while and then i looked at the clock and realized 5 hours had passed. for some reason it's the only thing i can be completely focused on for an unlimited length of time without a second source of entertainment, not even background music. i basically forgot my phone existed. it's honestly kind of unsettling.

jabberwocky

Echk!

The Sound Pours Out Of Giusuppe's Maw, Teeth Rotten And Ground With Eons Of Sandy Sediment, Voice Hungry With Mafia Violence And Cypheric Targeting -- What Must Be Done, And To Who, Clear Upon His Throaty Gurgle

Upon This Guidance I Send My Commands To Gerold, Enforcer Of My Will, The Visible Hand, Enactor Of Truth And Justice, Realizer Of Intent And Purpose

Find Him -- This Felix, This Alice-Knower Make Him Small Until It Hurts Track Him Down To The Ends Of This Earth From The Plains To Mexico... Come April His Body Will Be Gunch

What the one week of sunny British weather feels like :)

The Age of Gold (Jacopo Zucchi, 1565)

when im typing on the computer and i look up and theres a bunch of typos with red squiggly underlines i imagine the passage of text has been wounded in battle and is bleeding and i fix it with my right-click magic healing powers

Arnold Böcklin - Saint Anthony preaching to the fish (1892)

smoking one for the pope

Sketch.

David Lynch is directing dreams now btw

Whatever you do, if you do it sincerely, will eventually become the bridge to your wholeness; a good ship thats carries you through the darkness of your second birth which seems to be death to the outside.

C.G. Jung

Come and See (1985), dir. Elem Klimov

No matter what type of art you create, however big or small, professional or amateur, please keep doing it, keep creating, keep dreaming! David Lynch is your friend.

George Platt Lynes, Tex Smutney & Buddy Stanley Reclining

dad (immaculate conception) & mom (the origin of the world) dragan bibin, 2020

2 Mummies, Cerro de Pasco, Peru  (Somewhere between 1890-1923)

<><><>

La Sentinelle, agglomération de Valenciennes, le centre de formation.

fond club, jock thomson

Circus

What if I broke my spine forever? My sister would come into the room to draw her portraits in charcoal, of two bulging eyes in a sea of haze grey. Each portrait is no bigger than an index card, arranged on a piece of rigid stock paper, tessellated and horribly consistent. All those dead eyes staring out at her as she renders them incapable of telling her anything. “I hate you” she would say to me, every time she would finish another. “You’ve ruined it. You’ve completely ruined it.” She would storm out the room, echoing for complete lack of furniture, and I would be left alone with them to watch over me.

I would ask you to pick me up and you would do so carefully, my limp body soft and complete. Can you carry me, lay me on the mattress in the back of the house? Or on the ground, it doesn’t make a difference to me. Sometimes I think you don’t believe I can’t feel anything and most of the time I don’t believe you can imagine what that’s like.

“Crush me” I tell you. I can only blink my eyes and move my mouth. I could probably wiggle my ears if I tried but I never feel up to it. You would gently press down on my breasts and my rib cage.

“Can you feel that?”

I slowly move my head left to right and back again.

I think about outside and what it feels like to be there. The treetops and the june-bugs and the hatred I feel for summertime. Everyone has gone on without me.

“Hit me.”

You look at me like you don’t want to but I know where your wonder hides, in the small places like a boy afraid of his own shadow.

You punch me in my side, my arm, my stomach.

“Can you feel that?”

I smile so big like I’m at the circus.

“Cut me.”

“What?”

“Cut me.”

You look down at me on the mattress. Here I am, unmoving and so horny.

“Please, baby, if I never ask anything of you ever again, just cut me.”

Wonder-boy takes his buck knife and carves a small canyon on my upper thigh. I wouldn’t know if I hadn’t watched him do it.

“Again.”

He looks me in my eyes as he separates another layer of subcutaneous. It is pink and red and yellow and blue and disgusting. I am butter and cottage cheese inside.

He stands there over me, belt unbuckled, denim undone, sweating, afraid, wonder creeping out for a closer look. His eyes are wild, so far from the fog of mine. Yet, we both want the very same thing. He removes his penis from his clothes and his clothes from his body and he slides it, hard as stone, back and forth through the gushing flesh of my upper thigh. I can’t feel a thing but I could cum just from watching. I have my own wonder too. The air in the room is hung from the ceiling unmoving like a puppet sleeping on his gallows. I am so lucky that he loves me, I am I am I am. He fucks my butchered leg like a stray dog and I cum over and over and over again watching him.

We embrace like kin in the hospital waiting room. “I am so lucky that he loves me” I think as he holds me. Despite the bright red picture I’ve painted in the white lobby tonight, they ask of me just five minutes. I don’t mind. If I don’t look, it makes no difference to me.

✫･ﾟ*.2008･ﾟ✫*.

Illustration of a scene from Book 12 of the Aeneid: the physician Iapyx removes an arrowhead from the thigh of Aeneas, while Aeneas' mother Venus and weeping son Ascanius/Iulus look on. Fresco from the House of Sirico, Pompeii; now in the National Archaeological Museum, Naples.

Source: Bryan Schutmaat